I rarely hailed a yellow ride
There always seemed to be
So many black ones passing by
With space to carry me
I wait, I hope, there’ll come along
A brightly painted lift
Yet on the kerbside I remain
Refuse at first to shift
Then slowly come to realise
Perhaps I have no choice
It is a futile mission
Waiting for a ghost Rolls Royce
And so I hail the next along
And make my deathly bed
Immersed in darkness I can see
A dead end lies ahead
As I vacate protective shell
Slam shut the open door
My journey ends
And trusted friends
Need carry me no more.